


All About Your Heart

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst I guess, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly comfort though, happy birthday marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean's feeling down and Marco picks him back up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All About Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I figured my baby Marco couldn't get a better birthday present than Jean. Also, I started this a couple days ago without realizing it would end up being published on Marco's birthday.

It’s not the first time he’s gotten a little depressed after he crawled into bed with you, after he turned off the lights and doubt crept in, the gleaming barrier of a lightbulb removed.

It is one of the worst times, though.

“You’re so interesting, though,” he mutters, his body pressed against your side and his head shoved against your shoulder like he’s trying to bury himself in you, dissolve into your body. “I’ve just got these – I’ve just got scars. Everywhere. That’s only good for a pity party. Interesting for five minutes. And I – I know I’m not normal. I know my habits are weird. I know I do weird things sometimes and I can’t explain why and I know I annoy you sometimes and I –”

Your heart burns a hole through your chest as his voice cracks. Your arm is tight around him and it doesn’t matter, you want to hold him tighter.

He thinks it annoys you that he comes home from work and texts you instead of talking to you while he’s sitting next to you. He thinks it bothers you that he’ll turn off the music in the car for no reason, just that it was grating on his ears. He thinks it scares you when he sits and stares at the wall for an hour. He thinks his rocking freaks you out.

“I don’t mind your odd behavior,” you say, and you’re impressed that your voice doesn’t crack.

“ _Odd_ ,” he snorts. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“There’s nothing nice or mean about it,” you snap, and instantly regret it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, I’m not angry, I swear. I’m just – Jean.” You stroke his hair. “That’s all it is. Odd behavior. I don’t mind it. Hell, it’s the very thing I love about you. Not – no. That’s –” you take a deep breath. How do you say this without making it sound like you’re only here for his strange behavior, or like you have to ignore it to love him? “Jean, I’ve loved you from the start, in every single way. Every single one. All of your odd behaviors, every single one, even the ones you hate. Even the ones you try to hide. Even the ones you don’t try to hide. All of it.”

His arm tightens across your stomach. You don’t mind. You like the reminder that he’s here, that he’s holding on to you. You like that he’s willing to hold onto you.

“Jean, believe me when I say it’s not about your scars. It’s all about your heart.”

“What heart?” He says bitingly. “It took me months to be able to say that I love you, I don’t know how to interact with people, I – have no idea where my heart is. Or what it’s doing. I know I love you, but that’s about it. It’s hard to love something you can’t find.”

You have trouble inhaling for a moment. “You’re – Jean, I – you – you’re like a Van Gogh. A totally different style that no one’s really managed to emulate since and it’s totally unconventional and there are people who prefer more traditional styles and they overlook you and you know what? They’re missing out, Jean. They’re missing out on so much.” His hair is soft beneath your fingers. You brush your fingers over his hollow cheek. Your fingers tiptoe over the strong line of his jaw and down the length of his neck and stop to rub circles in the dip between his neck and shoulders.

You’ve seen his face scrunch up in laughter, tense up in anger, go blank with exhaustion and sadness. You’ve seen him walk into walls and trip over his own feet, and you’ve seen him fly around the track and jump hurdles like he had wings. You’ve seen him breeze past people without acknowledging their existence and you’ve seen him give up lunch because there was a kid outside the convenience store raising money for a band trip. You’ve gotten his opinion on the importance of celery and on the meaning of life and you’ve listened to him talk about everything in between. And when you got off that plane in full army uniform in a wheelchair, missing an arm and an eye, with absolutely no depth perception or ability to care for yourself, he hadn’t shed a tear. He’d hugged you, taken you home, showered you, and slept curled around you, like the arm that was supposed to wrap around his back wasn’t missing, like he wouldn’t wake up to stare at an empty eye socket. And then he’d helped you, had taken you to physical therapy, hadn’t complained once over the entire length of your rehabilitation.

He thinks he doesn’t have a heart, and you’ve never seen anything _but_ his heart.

“Jean, you’re my starry night, you’re my sunflowers. You can stay in your cocoon if you’d like, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a butterfly.” You trace a line down to his wrist, to the faded lines that he has a habit of touching whenever he’s overwhelmed or having a bad day. “These – it’s not about these. It’s about you, about the heart that I see every day, every time I look at you. You’re brighter than the stars, Jean. You make them look dim. I love you, scars and all, odd behavior and all. Everything.” You can feel him shaking. You couldn’t stop now if you tried; this means too much to him. “It’s all a part of you, and I love you more every single day. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’d be like – a lock without a key. There would be no way to help me. You’re it, Jean, you’re it for me. And I swear, it’s about your heart. It’s there. I know it is. And I love it so much I can’t even tell you.”

He clings to you, on hand around your neck and the other fisted in your shirt, his body noiselessly shuddering. He’s not crying, you know that much. He never does. There’s no need to wipe away tears. You just hold him against you, wait until his breathing slows, drag your hand through his hair until he lifts his head.

His eyes are dry, but he swipes a hand over them anyway. “Marco, if you ever say you’re just the lock again, I will slap you, okay? You’re not allowed to think that. You’re perfect.”

You snort. “Far from it. It’s fine, though. I don’t mind.” You tug, and he rolls up onto your chest, settling himself so he doesn’t constrict your chest. Your arm now free, you cradle his cheek, planting a kiss on his nose and watching it scrunch up as you pull away. “Regardless, I love you. Every time I see you, I feel a little more shocked that you’re mine. That you let me have what you’re willing to give. You’re incredible, Jean.”

He shakes his head, but kisses the corner of your mouth and you know what he’s unwilling and unable to say – that he appreciates it, that he loves you, that you helped.

He leans his forehead against yours, and you let your hand drift to his neck.

You don’t have to press hard, just gently, two fingers right to that dip in his neck.

You can feel his pulse. You can feel his heartbeat, there against your fingertips.

You match your breath to his and let your eyes drift shut while his heart beats against your skin.

**Author's Note:**

> [Listen and cry with me.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBVX5qOtvA8)


End file.
